Saturday the 37th
You said it was poetry––the block of grey blue sky and greasy clouds. You patted the bench beside you, but I didn’t sit. The park smelled of fried chicken and waffles from that place across the street, the one we never did try because who mixed chicken and waffles?
The rain started up, slow at first, then dumping everything it had been saving up. Neither of us moved––you sitting there, and me facing you, watching your stillness.
The clouds closed in, closed up, until all I saw was your eyes and the street light flickering above. You were all silver and light as the rain filled our socks and our world.